


Forced Delusions

by misfitcutie



Series: Forced Delusions [1]
Category: Ghostbusters (Comics), Ghostbusters (Movies 1984-1989), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misfitcutie/pseuds/misfitcutie
Summary: What happens when a non-psychotic individual ingests antipsychotics? Within an hour it will cause nausea, a sudden onset of depression, and will result in the individual passing out for a long length of time. It’s also thought possible to create delusions.But these delusions are all too real.We meet a college-aged Egon Spengler before meeting Peter and Ray, before Columbia, and before concrete evidence of the Other Side. We already know Egon’s been interested in the supernatural since his youth, but what gave him the need to bust ghosts?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Depression, suicidal thoughts, mental illness.  
> It’s pretty angsty.

#### Spring, 1968

The small bedroom was dimly lit by a single desk lamp. The sun had set some time ago, but a thin figure was still hunched over their desk, labouring away. The young man with a mop of dark curls was absorbed in work. Wires and electronic parts were scattered around him, the room more like a lab than a place of rest. He fastened a metal barrel to the device he was working on. It was a rush job. He had planned on having another week to finish, but that creature had decided to try to surprise him. Nothing surprises him anymore. He wrapped electrical tape around the contraption for a makeshift grip. He looked at the alarm clock next to his bed. It was almost 12:30.

He jumped up, his heart pounding and mind racing. He had lost track of time. It was almost here. He connected the rifle to a large device behind him, in turn, it was connected to a generator. The young man held the weapon close. He realised that he hadn’t time to test the equipment, it was incredibly dangerous and purely theoretical. No one had managed to build a nuclear accelerator in such a small scale before. Accepted physics says it shouldn’t even be possible. He looked at the time and then to his closet door. He was shaking. That creature didn’t need to be here to hold him a grip of fear. He ripped back the cord on the generator, it rumbled and shook the floor. The scent of gasoline filled the room. It wasn’t an ideal power source, especially so when used in a small apartment. He looked down at the accelerator, debating whether or not to turn it on. Worst case scenario was that it would take out this side of town. Best case was just the building.

His throat tightened and his chest was hollow. He wasn’t crying, but he could taste the tears. He knew that as long as he went with it, he would be at peace. Everyone would be without him. He was a disgrace. He was tired.

 He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, and tentatively flipped the switch. It let out a deep and disturbing hum that dwarfed the generator. If he didn’t die tonight, perhaps he’d go deaf. The hair on his body stood on end and nausea set in, almost doubling him. The air had ionised. It was successful so far. Maybe this would work.

The digits on the clock flipped to 12:30. On cue, a bright, orange light flickered into existence from behind the door. The knob shuttered and turned and the door cracked open. Still shaking, he aimed the gun at the closet, bracing it against the side of his hip. Over the equipment, he heard the creature giggle. Two blue, clawed hands slithered out, one on the door the other on the frame. The beast stepped from the darkness. It was large, bigger than the closet it came from. Its head was grossly out of proportion, nearly three times the size of its body. The question asking what allowed its anatomy to work was lost. Two large, yellow eyes peered back at him along with a large smile filled with sharp, crooked teeth. The young man tried to steady himself but the panic was overwhelming. He doubted himself and his work. The scream of the accelerator and rumble of the generator vanished. A shrill, wheezing voice emanated from the darkness and echoed in his mind. “Oh, Egon. Have you brought me one of your famous toys? Those are dangerous—,” He fired.

All power failed. The desk lamp burst, the generator shot, and the accelerator halted with an explosion. The blast from the rifle threw Egon back, his head slammed against the wall. Maybe it worked too well.

 

* * *

 

He was awakened by his roommate. As he came to, Eugene’s tone changed from worry to accusation.

“Egon, what did you do!?”

The room swirled into sight. His entire body ached. He sat up and groaned, he felt the lump on the back of his head. He had been folded up on top of the damaged accelerator. He stuttered nonsense as he looked around the room trying to make sense of it all. The floor beneath them was charred, his device and gun unsalvageable. The bedroom looked as if a tornado had blown through. Craning his neck, he looked past his flatmate to examine the closet. The door was intact, but the wall next to it was nearly gone. A massive hole reached from the floor to the ceiling; the contents of his closet vaporised and the bathroom in the next room destroyed. He had missed.

Egon stared blankly at Eugene, still unable to process what happened. He was surprised that he wasn’t dead. Too much of himself was disappointed. Eugene sighed. He placed his hands onto Egon’s shoulders and gave him a look of pity. Egon squirmed under the intimate gesture and refused to meet his gaze. He knew what was going to be said.

“Egon, when was the last time you took your meds?”

How could he ask that so casually?

“You don’t understand.” Egon’s voice was deep and wavering, “No one understands!” He swatted his roommate away.

Eugene started pilfering through the desk drawers. “Come on, Eggy. You’re a smart guy. You should be able to see through this.”

Egon picked up what was left of the rifle. The barrel had split and warped when he fired it.

“And you should know that you cannot convince someone with schizophrenia that their delusions aren’t real. And, I will state again, that I do not suffer from any sort of psychosis.”

Eugene hastily pulled out a prescription bottle and slammed the drawer, “For god’s sake, Egon, you’ve built another weapon and shot a giant hole in our apartment! By the looks of it, you could’ve been killed! How is this not a problem?”

They had been over this before. Egon shot up, briefly lost his balance, and stepped up to Eugene, inches from his face.

“This,” he gestured at the busted apparatus, “isn’t the problem. This is the solution! I am this close to getting rid of that bastard!”

“Eggy,” the patronising tone was back, “there is no such thing as the boogieman. There are no ghosts, no demons, no anything. The only way to make them go away is if you take your medicine.”

His face flushed in anger, Egon spat in his face.

Eugene carefully set the pill bottle onto the desk and wiped a hand across his cheek. He looked at Egon for a moment, then gave an empty apology. Eugene was a large man, it didn’t take much to wrestle Egon to the ground. He had gone gaunt with the recent change in medication. He was pinned face down on the floor. The smell of burnt carpet made his head hurt worse.

“Eugene, please, you don’t understand what it feels like.” his voice cracked as tears rolled down his cheeks, “It makes me sick.”

Eugene sighed again, “Eggy, you’re already sick. You’re going to hurt someone. Or worse, yourself.”

He reached behind him for the antipsychotics. He took a single dose and placed the bottle back into the desk drawer. It seemed to take forever, maybe he was stalling. Maybe some part of him wanted to believe Egon. He held the pill in the subjugated man’s face. Egon twisted his head, trying to find any room to move, but he was weak.

“Eugene, please—.”

The hand holding the medication cupped over his mouth with an iron clad grip. Egon fought back with no avail, all that awarded him was a firm hand on the swollen lump on his head. He felt like a dog. He squeezed his eyes shut. Silent tears streamed down his face in defeat. Only a small part of him was afraid that he wouldn’t wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning. This is how that bastard, demon-headed horror found it's way into his life. 
> 
> (Alternatively, why Egon would rather kill Rookie than face the Spiderwitch.)

#### Fall, 1955

A night light glowed on a small desk. Despite its size, it cast shadows across every wall. A microscope sitting on the table next to it made a large and misshapen one. After much debate, a child got up out of bed and moved it away from the lamp. The shadows weren’t what frightened him, but they certainly weren’t helpful. He jumped back into the safety of his sheets and pulled them up to his nose. He laid there for a while. He listened to the house settle and creak. The wind blew between the shingled siding and whistled between the window panes. He was scared. He didn’t really know why, but it didn’t feel good. He squeezed his eyes shut and started counting sheep.

His eyes flashed open. A bright, white light suddenly filled the room. The entire house shook violently and rain slammed against his window. His heart was beating hard against his chest. The sudden noise, that was scary, but the rain was a calming shushing sound. He didn’t usually have this much trouble sleeping, he was up hours past his bed time. In another attempt to settle down, he stared down at the area rug. He traced the pattern with his eyes. It wasn’t a fancy rug like what was laid in the parlour. His grandparents brought that one from Europe. This one was cheaper and covered the wooden floor completely. It was allowed to get dirty.

His brow furrowed. Something still didn’t feel good. Was it the rug? It did look weird from this angle. Yeah! It was on the ceiling! 

His stomach lurched. The rug was on the floor, he was on the ceiling. 

He immediately tensed up, expecting to fall, but that moment never came. He peaked an eye open and slowly relaxed. He felt gravity pushing him up. Or was it down? He sat up. He ran his hands over the prickly drywall. Was he dreaming? He looked up- or down?- at the floor in awe. His mom was right, his room was a mess. He should probably put up his chemistry set since he ran out of materials to play with.

He cautiously stood up. As fascinating as an experience this was, he worried about getting down. There wasn’t anything he could reach for and was afraid to jump. Would he fall? He craned his neck back and spit. The saliva made a smacking sound when it hit the carpet. He quickly sat back down, not wanting to risk it.

His bedroom door clicked open. He briefly wondered if whoever entered would be bewildered by the boy on the ceiling or if he'd be in trouble for being out of bed. 

"Dad!"

"Egon, how did you get up there?" His father gave a light chuckle before walking over and extending his arms towards the ceiling. The ceiling was short enough and his father tall enough that Egon was able to brace his hands onto his should and jump down. Egon locked his ankles behind his father's back and squeezed his neck with his arms, "I don’t know! I just woke up! It's a rather peculiar occurrence," he pulled away at arm's length, "You're home early, too! Did you bring me anything?" His father just smiled back at him. He seemed eerily calm and energetic for the time of night. He had said he wouldn't get back until the weekend too- but he was happy. Egon found his father emotionally unpredictable and took the chance he had. 

"Dad?" He pushed away, an attempt to signal he wanted down. The arms around his waist made an iron grip. The face in front of him grinned and twitched. It was unnatural and perverse and it was not his father. A scream was caught in Egon's throat which bubbled into nothing but a gasp. He kicked his legs and flailed hopelessly against the entity holding him. Out of the corner of the doppelgänger's mouth, a black dot shuffled out and across it's face coming to rest in an ear. 

The figure burst into a black mass, throwing Egon onto the floor. The scream was finally free. He franticly tried to slap away the arachnids crawling onto his skin and under his clothes. Wolves, recluses, and garden variety. Footsteps thundered down the hall and his bedroom door thrown open with a bang. The spiders scattered across the room at an impossible speed. His muscles tightened, his joints fixed as he curled into a ball on the floor. 

"Egon!" His mother dropped to the floor next him, his brother stood in the doorway. She tried to pull him upright into her lap, but he wouldn't budge. Tears streamed down his face as the sudden adrenaline rush worked its way out of his system and turned into a throbbing headache. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just love family? 
> 
> eh, I'm not particularly happy with this one, but I want to move on

#### Summer, 1968

It was natural to be afraid of spiders. It’s an innate reaction. If your goal is to scare someone, it’s probably a good prop to use. Egon’s reaction was more unnatural. He didn’t scream anymore, but vacated the premises in a blind panic. Which happened quite often since he grew up in the middle of nowhere. Before _it_ started, he could recall basic entomological information about local species but he had quickly ejected it from his mind. 

The spiders never came back. After a few months he started to believe it had been a bad dream, like his mother said. That’s when the activity picked up again. It took a few years before the cause showed its gruesome face. 

Of course, no one believed him. To understand why he was being targeted by the monster in his closet he began doing research. To his father’s dismay, this turned into an intense interest in everything supernatural. Unfortunately, the local librarian was obligated to order anything he requested. Egon would bring home books spanning from “The Magus of Strovolos” to “The Gates of the Necronomicon”. 

Despite protests of being a rental, “Electrical Application of the Psycho-sexual Drive” wound up in the fireplace. 

After that he didn’t bring any books home, he left them in his school locker. During the lunch periods, he’d spend time at the small library. By the time he moved on to college, they had a well-furnished collection of occult classics. 

 

After graduating from Senn, Egon moved back home. Although his professors -now peers- were sympathetic, they denied his application to be a full-time resident at the university. After the strange loss of his roommate, they believed he needed time to himself to recover. Part of him agreed with that, but he would’ve much rather been there than here. The Spengler manor was a crisp, white, plantation prison fenced in by corn fields. Egon was the sole detainee; his brother had moved out some years ago. 

He laid in bed. The moon shone brightly in his room, reflecting off metallic components and casting shadows on the far wall. A light breeze billowed the sheer curtains. He was drenched in sweat; his curls were plastered to his neck and his boxers clung to his thighs. The air-conditioner units had frozen over trying to beat the heat, now they were left with open windows. 

He kicked the sheet off and rolled over on to his stomach. He watched his bedside clock tick to three in the morning. He had been laying there for four hours, getting nowhere. It didn’t help that vivid images of the monster flashed in his head. Leaving this dreaded residence was the best decision he had ever made. 

He hadn’t touched the closet since he got back. He had left it empty as a child so that he’d never have to open the door. He was once caught trying to nail it shut. Now, his mother had filled it with yarn. She had tried to show him her stash of beautiful wools, but he refused. He knew she was trying to help him see the nonsense, but it just led to him sitting on the floor just outside his room screaming for her to stop. 

Egon sat up on the side of the bed. He wished he could busy himself with work, but while he was away his father had gone through his belongings and thrown out most of his other tools and scrap materials. It was a shame, he had recently designed a new device to detect supernatural entities. 

He wasn’t really sure what to do now. He felt lost; there was a cavern in his chest. What did theoretical physicists do outside universities? What did people his age do? He had promised his uncle that he would work in his laboratory out west, but he hadn’t got around to calling. Or that’s what he told himself. He knew he would be underemployed there and that was almost as bad as being overwhelmed. As much as he enjoyed his choice of major, he wanted to focus his work elsewhere. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way to turn his haunting into a professional field. 

He stood up and walked to the window. Parting the curtains, he stared out to the farmland that stretched for miles and the forest beyond. The knee-high corn stalks shivered every so often and coyote howls carried in the wind. He wiped the sweat from his chest. He crouched down and pulled a suitcase out from under his bed. He had since unpacked, now it was as a hiding place for “illicit” materials. He sat back and unzipped the top. Inside was several writing pads filled with notes, ideas, and designs; several old texts on parapsychology and the supernatural, and a rough prototype of a psychokinetic energy meter. It was a mess of wires and soldering. Even if he could get it to work it wouldn’t be easy to use. 

From another pocket of the suitcase, he dug out his old prescription bottles. Some were empty, others half full. He popped the cap off one of the fuller ones and stared down at the pills. It was a rabbit hole. He tried to think about what his hands were doing but he was to numb to decipher the words and images that came to mind. He dosed himself, deciding that putting himself _out_ was better than putting himself _down_. 

 

"Spookums?" 

He blinked hard, trying to find his bearings. He pressed his eyes behind his glasses, trying to make sure they were actually there. It felt like there was cotton in his ears which had also clouded his mind. 

"What?" He was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. It appeared to be morning, but he wasn’t sure. He was dressed haphazardly in a tee shirt and jeans. 

"You didn't answer me." His mother's voice was solemn under her mixed accent. She stood at the other end of the porch and paused her sweeping to look at him. Her brows were together in a look of what he took as pity. He hated it. 

"Could you repeat the question?" His words were slurred. 

"I asked if you'd have dinner with your father and me tonight. You've been avoiding him since you got home. He'd like to see you." 

His tone was flat, "I'm sure he would." 

His mother took the seat next to him, "He cares about you. He just has a hard time showing it." 

"He wouldn't give a damn if I jumped off the barn." 

Suddenly the broom handle was on his shin. It shocked him more than hurt. 

"Don't say that," his mother's voice was now stern. He looked away, her stares were too intense. 

"It's true and you know it." 

"Egon," he felt forced to look at her now, it was painful, "You cannot start speaking like this again," She was trying to be forceful, but she was pleading. 

He hung his head, cascading his face behind frizzy curls. It was true and he knew it. How long could he do this? He went inside and upstairs to his room. He threw himself back into his bed and returned to sleep. 

 

Now he sat at the dining table. He remembered getting dressed this time. He tried to be presenting. He even shaved. He poked at the food on his plate. He didn't know if he was hungry. He knew he hadn't eaten today and he couldn't bring himself to start. The silence shared between him and his parents was painful. He couldn't form thoughts enough to speak, if he could he wouldn't risk it. 

Eventually, his father spoke, "Have you called your uncle? He's waiting to hear from you. You would work well there." 

Egon set his fork down. 

"Would you give him some time? He just got home." His mother was ready to diffuse the situation before it started. 

"He's been here for two weeks. He's done nothing but sit in his room. What has he been doing in his room this entire time?" 

Had it been that long? The conversation carried around him. Was he even here? He supposed he could be astral projecting but discontinued the thought. 

His father raised his voice and enunciation, "What have you been doing?" 

He squeezed his fists under the table. What had he been doing? The conversation faded out again. 

"And this hair." 

Oh, this again. 

His mother tried again, "I think it looks cute." 

"Cute? He isn't a child. He is an adult and needs to realise that." 

 

Yes, a child with a doctorate. Egon couldn't take it anymore. He tried to keep composure but faulted, nearly throwing his chair back when he stood. He was out of the room and up the stairs before they could say anything. He ran into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. His parents were now screaming at each other in Polish. Was this his fault? He didn't know anymore. The war started too long ago. 

A hand rested on the handle of the top drawer of the vanity. He glanced up at his reflection. His face was red, a combination from the short exertion and panic. He ripped back the drawer handle hard enough to pull it out completely. He threw it down on the counter and started searching through its contents. What were his hands doing? 

They pulled out a pair of shears. The metallic blades glinted under the dim light of the bulb above the mirror. Anxiety gripped his chest tighter. He connected the dots but wasn't in control. He liked his hair. He liked how it hid all the other features he hated. The hands carefully separated a curl from his forehead. Barely opening the blades, they snipped off the hair. The lock curled tighter in his hand. That wasn't so hard. They cut another. And another again. Quickly he was standing over the toilet, grabbing chunks of the dark, twisting knots and hacking them off. The snakes writhed in the water. He relished the feeling, whatever it was, a combination of relief and loss. 

When he finished he set the shears back in the drawer. He couldn't look up at his reflection, he was terrified of what he'd see. Egon shrunk down the wall, pulling his legs in close, and raked his fingers through the remnants of his hair. The screaming had stopped but it was replaced by the static in his head. 

What the hell was he doing?


End file.
